


he tastes like you, only sweeter

by hellabaloo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/pseuds/hellabaloo
Summary: One night and one more time,Thanks for the memories(aka, Mou wants Pep to seduce Niko Kovač because of Reasons.)





	he tastes like you, only sweeter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts).



> Happy Last Minute Sub reveals!
> 
> So this is clearly set in a universe where both Kovač and Mourinho don’t get sacked in the really near future, which may or may not be this reality and I'm terrible at predicting these things and yeah XD
> 
> Title from Thnks fr th Mmrs by Fall Out Boy because I'll never not be pop punk trash.

 

.

 

“How is my favorite person in Manchester this morning?” José asked without preamble, the phone line connecting with an audible click.

Pep paused, the piles of tactical charts and scouting reports for City’s next match suspended in mid-air momentarily. Alone in his office, he put José on speakerphone and continued organizing his desk. “You would know better than me given you see him in the mirror every morning.”

José’s laugh comes out tinny and distorted from the phone’s speaker, but Pep can picture the easy laugh and crinkled-eyed expression. It’s one of José’s more charming faces. “How are _you_ , Josep?” he tried again, lips clearly catching and popping on the last consonant in Pep’s name that causes heat to pool involuntarily in Pep’s stomach. He had admitted once how much he liked hearing his name from José’s mouth and José must be in desperate straights if he was already bringing out the big guns.

“What do you want José?” 

“Can’t a man call his boyfriend to say hi, how are you? What is this world coming to. Do I need to woo you with Catalan poetry?”

Pep couldn’t help but snort, adding another folder to his pile with a little more force than strictly necessary, even if a smile was threatening the corner of his mouth. “You only call yourself my boyfriend when you want something.”

There was silence from the phone. 

“So. What is it.”

Pep hoped José was squirming; there was little he relished more than getting José to beg for something.

“I want you to fuck Niko Kovač,” José finally said matter-of-factly.

Pep stilled and considered what going on in José’s personal delusional parallel universe to bring him to this point. “Why? No wait, this is about the draw isn’t it? United got Bayern for the round of sixteen.”

Pep wondered if he ought to feel offended by José asking to prostitute himself for his and United’s gain. This time Pep could distinctly hear the faint squeak from a body twisting in a chair from the phone line. _Good_ , he thought, not a little viciously. 

“I need to have contingencies in place,” José said, the plaintive note in voice clear to Pep who had many long years of listening for what José wasn’t saying as much as what he did.

“So you’re volunteering my what, services?” Pep asked, casting a sidelong glance at his phone, hoping José would be able to hear the disingenuous tone of his voice loud and clear. 

“The second leg will be in Manchester and undoubtedly pivotal and I need to leverage every possible advantage I have.”

“No,” Pep said, scribbling notes on an experimental lineup he wanted to give a test-run to before end-of-season injuries really started to pile up. 

“Why not?” José whined.

Pep rolled his eyes. “As if I’d do anything to help United. I’m not ‘an advantage to be leveraged,’ José. When we started this,” he said, gesticulating to the air in front of him as if José was in the room and standing in front of him—he can’t help his hands sometimes, “we decided it would stay between us, between Pep and José. Nothing more, nothing less. Not City and United. Just us.”

José made a guttural noise of frustration and Pep could perfectly imagine the hand flying up and his eyes rolling back in clear disgust. Then there were mutterings, too low to be picked up by the phone’s mic and the sound of rustling papers.

“Beat Bayern and Niko Kovač because you’re better,” Pep said, squaring his shoulders and sternly looking down at his phone like he would at a player in need of a firm managerial hand. “Not because my ass is so fantastic it can distract a professional football manager for two legs and a hundred and eighty minutes.”

There was something that might have been a laugh. Or José was choking on something he’d eaten. “Your ass _is_ that distracting. Especially when you rip your trousers.”

“You know I do it just to show off,” Pep said, letting a note of the sly smile on his face creep into his voice.

There was a barked laugh from the other end of the line and for a while they talked about everything but football. 

In a quiet moment, José said, “You could if you wanted to though.”

Pep blinked in the rapidly dwindling daylight and couldn’t think what José was referring to. “What,” he asked flatly.

“Fuck Niko Kovač.”

“José—” Pep began to admonish him, but was cut off by an impatient noise from José that came through garbled over the phone line.

“Not as way for United to get an edge. But,” José said, his voice going quiet and still and the heat was suddenly back in Pep’s gut. “But if you wanted to, I’m saying I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“What?” Pep asked, incredulous and trying to reorient his world that José had just casually tilted on its axis. This was not something they’d ever discussed, nor had he’d ever considered if he was being honest.

“He’s a handsome man,” José said mildly and Pep could so clearly envision that small, coy smirk that José had made infamous. “And he’s much nicer than I am.”

Pep couldn’t quite remember what Kovač looked liked, but he had an impression of an easy smile and large, steady hands grasping his in a firm pre-match handshake. Not that he remembered many details from those last months in Munich that didn’t involve his inevitable exit.

“Everyone is much nicer than you are,” Pep shot back unwilling to show how unsettled he’d become.

“Still,” José said, trailing off, letting the implication hang there for a moment.

“Take pictures if you do.”

Pep squawked indignantly as he processed what exactly José had said, but before he could formulate an appropriate response José had already hung up, his laughter still bouncing off the walls in Pep’s office. He tried to settle down, push any thoughts of José Mourinho or Niko Kovač to the back of his thoughts, and finish his prep work for the coming week’s training sessions and match. But Pep found his mind wandering far more often than he’d like, and in the dangerous direction of warm brown eyes and broad shoulders.

 

.

 

There was no small amount of banter Pep faced as he made his way to his seat for the second leg between Manchester United and Bayern, the still frigid March night making him burrow further into his oversized scarf. He understood of course, the City manager in United territory, and reacted in good humor—at least it was mostly friendly. The distant, cool nods he exchanged with the Bayern officials he recognized that matched the evening’s temperature. 

Bayern held a slim margin against United, and that part of Pep with no media training hoped United might pull it out; he did not relish the media circus that would accompany his return to Munich. 

Ten minutes into the first half, Pep’s attention drifted to the touchline and his eyes skimmed over the familiar figure of José, the tension in his posture clear, and landed on a man in a sharp suit and well-polished shoes that even Pep could see reflected the stadium lights from his seat among the corporate boxes. He didn’t recognize Niko Kovač at this distance, but hadn’t expected to really. There was a stillness and control to Kovač even as he yelled out instructions. Pep carefully did not analyze how much time he spent watching Bayern’s current manager versus how much he actually watched their play.

Of course Bayern dash his hopes and dispatch United handily in the end. He doesn’t even bother to watch the last twenty minutes live, knowing he’ll have the video footage in his office tomorrow morning.

There was a single text message on his phone when he bothered to check it after he was back at his flat.

**Mourinho, 23:19**
    
    
    You could have slept with him and then we’d be through

Pep rolled his eyes while studiously not thinking about sleeping with Niko Kovač. He typed out, “You’re focusing too much on my ass and not enough on your players playing like shit,” before thinking better of it and deleted it; he let the message go unanswered. Now just wasn’t the time for their usual song and dance. He had the FA Cup quarterfinal match against United to prepare for, and José won’t be looking to play nice given the loss in the Champions League.

After the final games in the round of sixteen have been decided, everyone at City’s training center gathered in the film room to watch the draw. The players were rowdy and excited, Vinny organizing the traditional betting pool to pay out whoever gambles on the correct opponent. Pep quietly had Mikkel put them both down for Bayern and wasn’t surprised in the least  
They weren’t the only ones to guess correctly and Pep passed on collecting his share of the winnings.

Later, he ignored a call from José, but read the text message that immediately followed.

**Mourinho, 13:40**
    
    
    You know, you can still try out my strategy. Using your ass as a distraction that is

As if Pep could forget what strategy José had meant. His phone buzzed again and he thumbed open the text.

**Mourinho, 13:41**
    
    
    Remember, take pictures 

He texted back an emoji of a middle finger because he couldn’t be bothered to write out a proper response and Raz had been telling him all about them and their subtle distinctions earlier. 

This one, at least, was likely to get his point across clearly and concisely.

 

.

 

Pep didn’t always take pleasure in being right, especially when being right meant he was at the Ethiad the night before the first leg against Bayern to do a tv spot for BT’s production team. They were playing up the “never quite succeeded with Bayern, can he do it with City?” narrative that was already old news in 2017. But, he supposed it sold. 

Doing his level best to avoid Bayren’s executives and board members that had made the trip back to England, without appearing like he was avoiding them, Pep didn’t immediately turn around when he heard his name shouted from down a hallway.

It was no small relief that it was Niko Kovač and not a suit with whom he’d have to make polite small talk. Niko jogged a little to catch up with Pep and Pep admired the clear shape of his thighs in his track pants before he could stop himself. 

Oblivious to the bent of Pep’s utterly unprofessional thoughts, Niko’s smile widened and he said, “I was hoping to catch you before the match. We managers never get a chance to talk properly.” 

“I think they do that on purpose. Make sure we aren’t colluding,” Pep said, smiling wryly.

Niko threw his head back and laughed.

Before he could get too distracted by smile lines and corded muscles in Niko’s neck, Pep cleared his throat and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I wanted to congratulate you. Manager of Bayern Munich is a fantastic opportunity.”

“Every manager that came before me left large shoes to fill. You certainly,” Niko said, his voice a smooth baritone. “But of course it is a huge honor. And I’m very happy to be back.” There was a flash of a dimple before Niko turned his head away.

Pep brought up a hand to rub at his shaking head. “No, no. We were both happy to see the back of each other by the end. Never won the Champions League with them, hardly big shoes at all.”

“You’re far too modest.”

Pep ducked his head, earnestly fearing he might actually _blush_ at the compliment.

“You just don’t know me well enough, yet,” he finally said, snorting at the thought of how José would react to this.

“Not yet, no,” Niko said taking a long, lingering look at Pep. He shook his head subtly, as if to clear an errant thought before holding out his hand. Pep shook it reflexively. “Hopefully I’ll get the chance to.”

Pep felt the warmth from Niko’s palm far longer than he liked. And it continued to be far more distracting than he thought was necessary as he meandered his way down to his office next to the players’ dressing room.

He lost himself in lineup minutiae and when he bothered to look at the clock, several hours had passed and it was late enough that he was likely the only person left at the stadium—save the custodial staff.

Rising from his chair, Pep was stretching out his back when he heard footsteps and looked up to see Niko Kovač gently rap his knuckles against the doorframe.

“You do work late,” he said by way of greeting. 

“Yes. But you’re here too, so pot, kettle as the English like to say,” Pep replied, not sure where he want to go with that.

Niko shrugged, nonchalant. “It’s an important match and against a strong team. Bayern need to regain their reputation in Europe, of course I’m working late.” He left off that it was Pep who got a lot of the blame for that; Pep’s not sure if it’s tact or a deliberate jab. (Clearly, he’s been spending far too much time with José.)

At the thought of José, Pep could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and he couldn’t stop the thought ricocheting around his brain that José wanted him to fuck Niko. Of course he’d been right, Niko was indeed a handsome man.

Pep came to a decision all at once, leaning back against his desk and letting his long legs casually splay open. 

“Since we’re both here, we can have that talk you mentioned earlier.”

Niko’s smile widened slowly, his dimples deepening. He took a slight step forward and Pep’s breathing quickened.

“Perfect.” Niko nearly purred the word.

Pep stood up and straightened his sweater, staying a beat too long in Niko’s space before walking to the office door and shutting it with a decisive click of the lock. Turning around he smiled and let his eyes slowly rake up Niko’s form, in case there was any lingering doubt. Niko’s own smile turned sharp and Pep felt his excitement morph and settle into his gut.

This would be the most fun Pep would have preparing for match he’d had in a long time.

 

.

 

Pep walked out of the tunnel and took a swig from his water bottle, casting his eyes around for Niko on the opponents’ touchline. Despite the chill in the evening air, Niko forewent a tie, his shirt unbuttoned and Pep could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. 

There was a visceral flash of knowing how that stubbled skin felt under his lips and against his ass that Pep coughed suddenly, hoping the rising heat in his cheeks wasn’t visible on the high-definition cameras. He couldn’t avoid this bit of pre-match theater, so at least it better not cause any more rumors than necessary.

Niko smiled, his damn dimples infuriatingly endearing and his hair perfectly coiffed, and leaned in for a hug in addition to the handshake. Catching the scent of Niko’s cologne, Pep became unmoored for a moment. There was nothing he could hear beyond the sound of his own blood in his ears and the distant murmuring of the crowd. He had approached Niko with very clear intentions, but all of a sudden he’s not sure who seduced whom.

The only thing Pep knew for certain was the hoped there would be an equally warm reception in Munich. He needed those pictures for José, after all.

 

.

 


End file.
